A friend says, “I’m practically
allergic to organized religion,” 
and I nod in solidarity and
sisterhood.  I joke, “I'm
far more comfortable with
disorganized religion.” 

Then I go home and check 
Merriam-Webster because English
professors do that a lot more
often than you might think, and it
tells me that religion is “an organized
system of religious attitudes, beliefs,
and practices,” and I realize that 
“organized religion” is redundant.

It doesn’t impact my friend’s
position, but my standup routine
has to change.  I’m not comfortable
with religion period.  I’m not comfortable
with the idea that moral behavior
can be organized into a list of 
dos and don’ts. I’m not comfortable
with the intentions of a singular
creator being known and owned by
this or that hierarchical, patriarchal,
oligarchical, pseudo-monarchical 
“non-profit” organization. I am not
comfortable with any one way being
determined the arbiter of sacredness,
the magistrate of love.  

So once again, since it came
up, I check the layout of my
philosophy.  I rearrange the furniture
of my creed.  I tweak the angle 
of my theology and take residual 
dogma out with the trash. I remember
again that the only value in any of it
is the degree to which it reminds me
of who I am, the freedom with which 
it allows life to flow like a breeze
or a river or a bird gliding on energy
unseen by a physical eye but
undeniable in the experience
of the flier. 

It was still funny, though.